Notes she’d left on grocery lists.
Photos taken for no reason.
Voicemails I’d saved without knowing why.
The charge was still there, unchanged. But it no longer felt like an accusation.
It felt like a question.
And for the first time since she died, I didn’t feel pressured to answer it.
The Myth of Closure
We talk about closure as if it’s a finish line.
As if grief is a box you seal, tape shut, and label resolved. But sitting there in the dim light, listening to her voice through a phone speaker, I understood something I hadn’t before.
Closure isn’t a locked container.
It’s a daily decision.
A choice not to chase every mystery.
A choice to let love exist without explanation.
A choice to accept that some stories don’t end—they change form.
Whether the clerk was right or wrong stopped mattering. What mattered was this: love does not vanish on schedule.
It doesn’t obey calendars.
It doesn’t respect funerals.
It doesn’t disappear because paperwork says it should.
Sometimes it lingers.
Sometimes it startles you.
Sometimes it shows up as an ordinary notification with an extraordinary weight.
Living With the Question
I never disputed the charge.
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